


erroneous manoeuvres

by slippingfromreality



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Comedy, Communication Failure, Derek's Life Is Hard, Jock Derek, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nerd Stiles, Rating Is Due To Language, Scott is a better friend than usual, There's A Tag For That, hopefully, huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 19:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13083894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slippingfromreality/pseuds/slippingfromreality
Summary: “Hey, Stilinski!”Stiles clenches his teeth. “What do you want, Hale?” he shouts back, not bothering to turn around. The smug smirk that’s most likely waiting for him is already seared into his mind from overexposure.“A date!” the answer comes, still as loud, and most of the bystanders giggle or snort in Stiles’ direction.Stiles rolls his eyes. This is the third time this week. He’d complain that Hale’s jokes are getting pretty stale, but he’d probably be milking this situation for all that it’s worth, too, if their roles were reversed. “Wrong aisle,” he grouses back, “try the bakery section. I hear they have fresh tarts.”Or, in which Stiles grievously misjudged his bullying situation.





	erroneous manoeuvres

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a cute Sterek photo edit that's probably been floating around the internet since 2013 and that you've probably seen if you're half a fan, but for the life of me I cannot find again. Whoops?  
> Also inspired by the fact that I'm apparently never getting over this ship DDD:
> 
> Criticism and tips and stuff's greatly appreciated since I'm still new to the writing side of the fic spectrum 
> 
> Anyway, geniet dit!!

“Hey, Stilinski!”

Stiles clenches his teeth. “What do you want, Hale?” he shouts back, not bothering to turn around. The smug smirk that’s most likely waiting for him is already seared into his mind from overexposure.

“A date!” the answer comes, still as loud, and most of the bystanders giggle or snort in Stiles’ direction.

Stiles rolls his eyes. This is the third time this week. He’d complain that Hale’s jokes are getting pretty stale, but he’d probably be milking this situation for all that it’s worth, too, if their roles were reversed. “Wrong aisle,” he grouses back, “try the bakery section. I hear they have fresh tarts.”

A couple of surprised _ooooh_ s, and then he hears the grating cackle of Jackson’s laugh. “You better step up your game, man,” the jerkoff laughs, and Stiles spares a moment to sigh – hopefully he hadn’t pushed the popular jock far enough to resort to actual physical bullying. Stiles had his fair share of nursing Jackson-induced black eyes, thanks.

The weird thing is though – Hale isn’t generally the bullying type. The only time he actually hit someone on school grounds was when he punched Whittemore back in freshman year, and that was for making a stupid comment about one of Erica’s seizures. Which doesn’t really count as bullying in Stiles’ books. Plus, they’ve both been studiously avoiding each other since middle school, when ‘Stiles and Cora and Derek’ subtly turned into ‘Stiles and Cora’ and then into ‘Stiles’ (but then luckily later into ‘Stiles and Scott’).

Despite that, Stiles was still surprised that the next interaction they had was Hale fucking _mocking him_.

A hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get to chem, bro,” Scott says, puppy eyes determined, and Stiles wishes.

He wishes they didn’t have to pass by Douchebag Numero Uno and Dos on their way to chem.

He wishes Derek just laughed, demanded high-fives from his jock friends and swaggered away when he was done with Stiles, like normal assholes do, instead of staring after him with a frown.

He wishes, above all, that he didn’t think the way to Lydia Martin’s heart was a very dramatic and very public declaration of his undying love. At her _birthday party_. He wishes he didn’t flail ADD-first through life.

He wishes Derek Fucking Hale’s eyes would just decide what shade they were already so he’d have one less puzzle to bother him at night.

 

 

 

>><< 

 

 

“Hey, Stilinski!”

It’s Friday. He’d really hoped he would make it to the weekend without further problems, but apparently that’s too much to ask for. “Hale,” he grumbles in response, not slacking off his pace. Maybe if he makes it past the locker room and into the relative safety of the main hall, he wouldn’t have to actually look at freshly showered, topless and still-a-little-damp lacrosse captains who make his life unnecessarily hard. Maybe he wouldn’t have to suffer a beating because he can’t keep his big mouth shut.

“How do you think I’d look if I dyed my hair strawberry blond?” Hale shoots after him, not moving from the locker room’s entrance, delight twinkling in his eyes. The fucker.

Stiles laughs loud and forced. “I don’t think it’d do your image very good,” he replies hoarsely, “but thanks for trying to impress me!” He hears a couple of laughs echo from behind Hale and he really hopes that the guy gets dissuaded from constantly trying to provoke him at some point.

He’s just barely in range to hear Hale mutter “You have no idea”, but he’s probably already in conversation with someone else.

 

 

>><< 

 

 

 

Stiles really hates the cafeteria these days.

He hates it because:

  1. After _The Fiasco_ , Lydia, his one and only object of affection, ignores him like a stop sign in favour of laughing with her newly-appointed dark-haired best friend.
  2. Scott, who should be offering a bro-dude shoulder, ignores him like a stop sign in favour of staring at said best friend all dopey-like.
  3. The rest of the student body doesn’t ignore him at all, like … whatever the hell the opposite of a stop sign is. (A go sign? A green light?) In fact, they have trouble tearing their judgemental eyes away from him.



How long is this whole laugh-at-the-pathetic-failure thing supposed to last? Don’t any of them have lives to return to? Fuck everything.

He’s passive aggressively shoving fries into his mouth and chewing rudely at the back of Scott’s head when one of his more recent tormentors nears their table, lunch tray loaded and held with one hand like he’s silently mocking Stiles for being noodle-limbed. The defined muscles and sinews in that forearm, pulled taut from the strain of the weight they’re holding still, probably aren’t supposed to inspire thoughts of what else they could hold up or hold down while—

“Stilinski,” the plump mouth says, and Stiles cringes, cursing his hyperactive mind and the direction it took, because the _absolute last_ thing he needs is Hale seeing his face flush in the guy’s vicinity. _Lydia_ , he tells his mind. _Lydia_ has nice forearms, all soft and slim and adorned in expensive jewellery. That’s his kind of forearm.

“Hale,” he responds, and Scott snaps out of his lovesick daze at that and sends a quick look his way. A look that says, _shit, in front of the entire school?_ Yes, Stiles mentally replies, for such is his luck nowadays.

“I hear you’re a fan of public proclamations of love,” Hale smirks.

Stiles sighs. “Yeah, I’m just a hopeless romantic like that.” He’s really not sure why Hale is still amused by any of this. Sure, some loser planked his name real hard because he’s an idiot and he’s in love. This is still high school, and Stiles won’t be told that that’s the dumbest thing anyone’s done all year. Right?

Hale puts his free hand on the back of the chair next to Stiles, and he has to stop himself from flinching. “I like it,” Hale says, very … conversationally, and Stiles isn’t sure exactly how to reply to that. Is that even insulting? If it’s Hale’s attempt at sarcasm, then he definitely needs some lessons from someone who knows their business. Like Stiles. He tells the jock as much, and immediately his brow scrunches up into a frown.

“No,” he says, and “what?” and before Stiles even gets to spell it out for him, he shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts and goes, “Look, Stiles, this doesn’t seem to get through to you, but—”

“Ahhh, no!” Scott yells suddenly, leaping up from his chair and pulling the entire cafeteria’s attention to him. He glances around for a second, and then clutches at his arm. “Ahh, fuck, look, I’m—cut,” he cries, even though his arm is unharmed and blood free, and Stiles wants to simultaneously shake his head at Scott’s familiar lack of forethought, and pull him into the tightest hug possible. He’s just about to say something like _You tried_ , when Scott stumbles forward, into the table and his own food, and gets burger sauce all over his shirt.

“Damn,” he mutters, “of all the shirts I own …” and Stiles jumps up, not willing to waste this opportunity.

“Scotty!” he yelps, hurrying over, and leads a devastated-looking Scott out of the room and down the hall to the bathrooms as fast as he can, ignoring his name being called behind him.

“Wow, what a save,” he tells Scott on the way, half-joking and half-appreciative, “you actually humiliated yourself in front of your crush for me. You really _do_ love me.” And Scott sends a skew smile his way.

“I know, I need some kind of award for this,” he laughs, and then soberly adds “this means that you’re totally paying for the pizzas later.”

Stiles huffs and almost considers kissing him.

 

 

>><< 

 

 

“Stilinski!”

Stiles feels like punching something. Yesterday, Greenberg brained himself so hard on a lacrosse stick that puke came out of his nose, along with blood and snot. That’s comedic gold. Stiles can think of ten new vomit-related nicknames off the top of his head, they should be focusing on laughing at _that_ for nearly two weeks, and forget about Stiles again.

He hates his life.

“Let me guess, you need dating advice again,” he sighs, accepting his fate.

Hale quirks one corner of that infuriating mouth up. It’s even worse than the smirk. “Not advice,” he says, standing a few feet closer than he usually does, “just a date.”

“Ahh. Ran out of freshmen already, did you?” Stiles smiles, all honey and rose thorns, but Hale doesn’t react.

He closes his locker and turns to face the lacrosse captain more fully. Where’s Scott when you need him? “You’re shopping at the wrong mall, though, again. I’d say the only type of date hanging around in my vicinity is the non-existent kind. As I nicely demonstrated for everyone and their uncle at that party. So, since that’s not really your style, I suggest you put your infamous luck in that department to good use elsewhere.” Stiles hopes, fervently, that casually mentioning his momentous fuck-up like it doesn’t bother him at all will dissuade further jokes on the subject.

Unexpectedly, Hale’s infamous frown comes back in full force. He doesn’t look like he’s laughing at Stiles at all. “Apparently my luck’s running out a bit.”

Stiles snorts. As if. “Right. And the Titanic was unsinkable.”

Hale laughs, a shock of it, like he hadn’t really meant to. “Well, here’s a piece of advice for _you_ , then – bestow your grand gestures on people who’d actually appreciate them. And even reciprocate.”

Stiles immediately bristles at this. Of course this asshole jock who probably never looks past breast size in the women he prefers wouldn’t understand. “It’s not about _appreciation_ , it’s about _deserving it_ , dumbass. And Lydia Martin deserves every ounce of devotion she gets, even if it’s from someone like me, and even if it’s not reciprocated.” He spins around and marches down the hall to algebra, and completely misses the look on Derek’s face.

Completely misses the “I could make the same argument about you”.

 

 

>><< 

 

 

“Stilinski!”

He turns toward the sound, already furious, but rears back a bit in shock when his eyes find their target. He’d expected a different Hale rounding on him.

“You’re such a huge moron,” Cora snarls into his face, backing him into his own locker. Curse these corridors for being so easily accessible to people who hate him.

“Should’ve stuck with the flat screen, I know,” he agrees. He also curses that particular decision every day.

She stares at him like he’s grown a second head – which is admittedly not a new look for people who regularly have to deal with him – but then shakes her thoughts off and pushes him harder into the lock that’s cutting painfully into his back. “I’d say this is a new record, but your idiocy has never really known any bounds, has it?” she continues.

Stiles tries to shrug, but her grip’s kind of strong. “In all honesty, though, I think I’m paying enough for this mistake already, so—”

“You bet your fucking in-law ass you’re paying for it,” she hisses, venomously, “but later, when you’ve realised what exactly your mistake is.” And then she steps back, smiles sweetly like she did when they were friends back in middle school, and walks away.

Stiles rubs at his back, thinking that he kind of prefers Derek’s form of messing with him. Sticks and stones, yada yada, sure, but he bruises like a peach and Cora has one hell of a right hook – he knows from experience. One he doesn’t want to repeat again.

_Wait_ , his brain says, as he stares numbly after her.

Did she say his _in-law_ ass?

 

 

>><< 

 

 

“Stilinski!”

He whips around, his fingers still in his mouth from when he was licking the salt off them just now. _Not again_ , he thinks. Can’t he just enjoy the cafeteria food these days without it turning into a public spectacle?

“You’re such an idiot.” Danny, surprisingly, is the one to smirk condescendingly at him this time. Really, _Danny_? The Hales even roped the one popular guy he actually likes into sinking to their level? What pure evil!

“I’ve been made aware,” Stiles replies warily, desperately wanting to say _Don’t let them lead you to the dark side with their attractive scowls and perfect jawlines, Danny!_ instead.

Danny smiles a thousand-kilowatt smile at him. “Oh, trust me, you’re gonna kick yourself over this later.”

“What are you talking about?” That’s definitely not a sarcastic smile, or a belittling tone, or anything vaguely related to being mean – actually, Danny sounds just like Scott when he knows that Stiles has bitten off more than he can chew. Literally or figuratively.

Also, whatever he’s saying is not computing _at all_. Stiles is _constantly_ kicking himself. Present tense.

“I’m talking about Derek, obviously,” Danny sighs, rolling his eyes like he’s not exchanging the most words with Stiles that he has in his entire life, “FYI, he’s been planning this long before you decided to play the love-struck protagonist at Lydia’s party. It just made him change tactics. Which I don’t agree with, ‘cause you’re obviously not in a place to accept that right now, but whatever.”

Great, that’s just what he wanted to hear. That he’d be the butt of Hale’s jokes whether they included his wildly uncontrollable love for Lydia Martin or not. Actually, no, that does make him feel better. Also, when will he ever be in a place to accept Derek Hale laughing in his face?

“Well, then we’re in agreement, because I definitely don’t agree with this situation either.”

Danny’s expression turns irritated. “Don’t give opinions on matters you don’t comprehend, Stilinski.”

And just like that, Stiles has reached his threshold for everyone’s bullshit and all the damn paradoxes they keep throwing at him. What the actual _hell_. “You know, abrasiveness doesn’t really suit you, Mahealani.”

But the goalie is already walking away. “And denial doesn’t suit you, Stilinski!” he throws back, along with a wet wipe. Stiles doesn't catch it. The asshole.

  

>><< 

 

 

He lifts his hand to stop Scott before he could even get a word out, after class. “No,” he beats him to the punch, “I had no idea what half the test was about. And yes, we’re failing chemistry miserably, but at least it’s together as bros, huh?”

Scott flashes him a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, man. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, I get it. We can TP Harris’ house when we graduate.”

Stiles snorts despite himself. “Luckily, my dad’s this close to granting us permission for that.”

“Sweet!”

“Stiles.” He stops dead in his tracks. Before him, in the middle of the crowded corridor (looking a little rumpled, like if dejection had a face), stands none other than Derek Hale. Again. He doesn’t have the energy for this today. He’s done.

“I can’t believe you still haven’t found a new victim yet,” he whines. So what, he’s tired. He wants to go home and sleep. He wants to go back to being invisible. He wants not to tense up every time he hears that voice, knowing that moments like these will be the only ones where it’s directed at him.

He’s sick of not getting what he wants.

Hale frowns at him. “I’m bound and determined,” he shrugs. “Sounds to me like something we have in common.”

“With the obvious difference of intention,” Stiles mutters. He fully intends to slip past the jock and let Scott convince him to skip the rest of the classes, but then a hand reaches out to his bicep.

“There isn’t anything that makes Lydia Martin better than me,” Derek says, seriously, stubbornly, and if Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d swear that they’re busy with two different conversations.

“Really? I can think of a few things.” He may be a hundred and forty pounds wet, but he can match any star athlete in sarcasm and scathing wit, if push comes to shove.

Derek flinches like Stiles’ words were a physical blow, and Scott throws Stiles a _wtf_ face over his shoulder. “Like what?” Hale asks, voice unsteady, like he actually wants to hear what Stiles has to say – like his happiness _depends_ on what Stiles has to say – and Stiles gets this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach that something is really off about all of this.

“Like the fact that she knows when a joke isn’t fucking funny anymore.” Stiles catches Jackson’s gaze, over Derek’s shoulder, standing at the end of the hallway, and he’s shaking his head. Like he’s disappointed in _Stiles_. What the hell? Derek’s expression morphs into one of pure confusion.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? What joke?” Derek’s hand curls in tighter around his arm, the hand around his backpack strap turns white. Stiles feels like laughing, like curling into a ball, like rewinding and reviewing all the conversations he’s ever had with Derek Hale. He can hear the kids in the hall around them nervously twittering at each other, but it’s rapidly turning into white noise.

He knows, logically, what his answer should be – _You know what I’m talking about_ is on the tip of his tongue – but so is _Wait, I don’t really know anymore_. And _Please tell me you’re not joking right now_. Because that … that would be the most diabolical joke of all, to plant a little seed of hope in the centre of Stiles’ chest.

Hale probably sees something to that effect in his face, because his expression smooths out into a blank stare, and he lets his arm fall back to his side limply. Stiles desperately wants to stay and talk to him and hear him talk back without feeling that weight of impossibility anymore.

The bell announces the start of the next period.

Scott pulls on Stiles’ sleeve.  

He follows.

 

 

>><< 

 

 

“Stilinski!”

Stiles almost hops a foot in the air. That was right into his ear (He’d been zoned out – he loves AP bio, okay, shut up). He whips his head around to stare at Lydia Martin, of all people.

He shuts his mouth with an audible click after a long, tense moment and an utterly unamused look from her. Fuck, she’s pretty. But, interestingly enough, her eyes aren’t that captivating anymore – he’s already well acquainted with their exact shade.

“I owe you an apology,” she says, with the air of someone who doesn’t owe him anything at all, but her tone is sincere. She slides into the empty seat next to his, in the back of the class, like she’s gliding into a regal ball by request of the king himself. So – like she does anything, really.

“You really don’t,” he says when his vocal chords finished rebooting and his heartbeat is only slightly under the critical speed, “I acted like a total idiot at your party and I totally deserved—”

“Stiles, I’m not apologizing for the way I acted. I’m apologising for not telling you _why_.” She leans in close, her favourite perfume a welcome addition to his shitty day. “You have to know, Stiles, I honestly thought—this whole thing, I thought you’d realized what you’re doing a long time ago. When I laughed, it was because I was so surprised that you still thought you were hung up on me.”

His heart nearly stops at her words. “What—what are you talking about?” he stammers. She sounds like Stiles’ passionate love for her is some … some kind of ruse, some kind of self-invented smokescreen he uses for … what exactly?  To protect himself from some unholy truth? That’d be ridiculous. Totally bogus. Gravely erroneous on _several_ points, actually—

Wait. Okay, first of all, when in the hell did Lydia Martin decide that she’s acknowledging his existence, much less pretend that she actually understands him? He sits back angrily, hoping he conveys exactly how disappointed he is in this new development.

Lydia sighs like she agrees, mutters “I can’t believe I really have to do this,” to herself and then flicks her coppery golden locks back with determined finesse. “Do you remember that time in freshman year, the first time we talked?” she asks pointedly, staring Stiles down.

Of course he remembers it. It was the catalyst of all that brings colour and joy to Stiles’ life – she’s talking about the day he fell in love with her. He rolls his eyes at her and doesn’t deign to respond to such an idiotic question.

“Okay,” she continues, unperturbed, “so then you remember the exact circumstances of that day, huh?”

He narrows his eyes at her. What is her point supposed to be?

Because again—of course.

He remembers every single detail about that day.

He remembers he had toast for breakfast because his dad had eaten the last of his cereal the night before and he was silently fuming about that – that stuff was loaded with sugar! He remembers Mrs McCall came to pick him up, because he didn’t have a bike like Scott and he thought it was pointless, so close to being able to drive the Jeep to school. He’d been studying for his license. He remembers sitting beside the field at lacrosse tryouts, not really wanting to be there and knowing neither him nor Scott would make it very far, but cheering for his friend anyway and secretly wishing Hale would get a cramp in his ass for being so cocky. He remembers Lydia just plopping down out of nowhere next to him, he remembers feeling like his cheeks caught fire, and starting to talk about lacrosse or something and getting all kinds of positive signals from her. He remembers she smelled good. Like something he wouldn’t mind smelling for the rest of his life. She’d even laughed a few times – with him, not at him – and he was just about gearing up to ask her out when Whittemore came striding off the field like he’d singlehandedly won, pulling her onto her feet and kissing her in one smooth motion. He’d been crushed. That part is pretty memorable. And he’d thought, given all her encouraging behaviour, that she’d see the light eventually. Maybe in ten years. Hence the plan.

He also remembers that Scott collided with Hale at one point, coming away with a black eye, bloody nose, asthma attack and no position on the team, while Hale only scowled slightly harder. The asshole. But that’s beside the point.

“Obviously,” he snorts, wondering exactly what _her_ point is supposed to be, except to maybe affirm how head over heels he is for her.

“Obviously not," she counters, “otherwise you’d know exactly what I’m saying right now.”

He sighs loudly, throwing his hands up, frustration building at how insistent yet vague she’s being. “What do you want from me? No, I _don’t_ know what you’re saying, but I remember that day exactly, Lydia, okay, I remember you looking like rainbows and dreams come true and I remember Scott sucking at lacrosse and I remember you were _dating Jackson_. What is this about?” he demands, trying and failing to keep his tone at an urgent whisper.

“Derek Hale,” she states, simply, like everything in the world is about him. Apparently so with the way his life's been going. “I saw you staring at him, continuously, and I thought that _that’s_ a neat coincidence, since I caught him staring at _you_ not a week before that. I went to sit beside you to fish out if you guys were _secretly dating_ , Stiles, and the longer you talked the more I realized that you were hiding all sorts of feelings in your snarky comments. You didn’t even seem to notice it yet. And I realized back then, that this was gonna be drawn-out and painful to watch, only I couldn’t even fathom the degree of painful you’ve managed to make it,” another pointed look, “I thought about stepping in and helping you guys along, later, except then you started sending me those weird love letters—”

“Okay, yeah, I get it,” Stiles quickly cuts her off, the embarrassment returning, “it was freshman year. I was slightly worse. But—” he stops, considering, taking it all in.

He wants to say _That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard_ , he wants to say _Are you concussed? Should I call someone?_ He wants to say _Please don’t you start messing with me too_ , but honestly? You do _not_ have to use a lot of words to persuade a Stilinski that something he wants is accessible.

And now that he really tries to remember what precisely they were talking about – it _was_ mostly Derek Fucking Hale. How he definitely had it out for Stiles. How Stiles was sure he intentionally sabotaged that experiment they did together, doesn’t matter what Cora or anyone else says, and that Stiles was maybe a tad resentful that now Harris eternally hated _him_ for that small – _small!_ – fire. So sue him, he spent a lot of time thinking about the guy. Hatefully. And resentfully. But maybe that was just a convenient excuse?

And after the strange run-ins with people in Derek's inner circle that Stiles himself never talks to, and that encounter with Derek in the hallway, that awkward moment where everything looked a little more requited than he knew what to do with, he’d kinda been planning to just walk up to him and spill all his guts, hoping not to get trampled on.

This … just makes him hope for something a little more.

Fuck.

“Fuck,” he concedes.

“Finally!”

 

 

>><< 

 

 

“Stilinski!”

Stiles’ head whips up at the familiar sound. He’d checked the whole school with no luck, hadn’t seen the Camaro anywhere and was practically _this close_ to hiding in one of the classrooms and breathing into a paper bag. And all this time, Hale was waiting at his Jeep. Looking kind of furious.

Stiles’ heart stutters at the sight of him.

~~It’s been doing that all along.~~

“You thought I was _joking_ this entire time!?” Derek growls, actually growls, coming forward threateningly until he’s almost on top of Stiles, looming over him, all anger and passion and hot like burning, “You fucking thought I was _messing_ with you? What the hell, Stiles? Is that what all those sarcastic answers were for? I embarrass myself again and again as publicly as possible to make you see how serious I was and you thought I did that for _fun_? What the hell kind of—”

Stiles surprises the both of them when he darts forward, capturing Derek’s mouth urgently. Just—all those words, in that particular order, he’d never thought he’d see the day where they would be directed at _him_. Derek is shocked stiff against him for a moment, but then he relaxes into Stiles and wraps his arms around his middle so tight that it seals them together. And kisses back _feverishly_.

“Don’t think that this solves anything,” Derek mumbles distractedly against his lips, not loosening his grip on Stiles’ back an inch, “I’m not done ranting at you. I can’t believe you’d think I’m that shallow. Do you even know how much it hurt that you’d dismiss me that easily?” Stiles kisses him again, softer, sweeter, like the most honest apology, “I actually seriously considered dyeing my hair for you,” Derek complains without any heat, and Stiles can’t help but smile against his mouth.

He wants to say, _I can’t believe you actually exist_. He wants to say, _I’m sorry, I’m an idiot, please forgive me and please never leave._ He wants to say, _I’ll take that date now, if the offer still stands._

He also wants to say something like _You know you’re gonna have to kiss me in front of the entire school and all your lacrosse buddies from now on?_ but somehow, after the past few weeks, it doesn’t seem like Derek’s gonna have a problem with that.

He ends up saying, “I’ll make it up to you. In any and all ways possible. What is it you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey, that’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give yo—”

He’s interrupted by Derek’s mouth on his again, though he’s laughing so hard that it could hardly constitute kissing. “Cheeseball,” Derek mutters warmly.

“You mean cultured movie buff,” Stiles counters easily. And Derek _laughs_.

Wow. If this is what he could have been having, then yeah, he’s definitely kicking himself.

“Actually, you can start by giving me a lift. Cora took the car. Said she didn’t wanna witness your head finally coming out of your ass.”

Stiles blanches at the mention of her name. “Oh, shit,” he breathes, gripping Derek’s shirt tighter, “she’s totally gonna kick my ass for this, isn’t she?”

Derek only laughs, like he doesn’t see how Stile’s intact bones are at stake here.

“Do you think she’d be pacified by a present? I have a brand new TV she could get. I don’t think she’s really the jewellery type. Derek?”

 

 

>>><<< 

 

 

“Hey, Stilinski!”

Stiles has to bite his cheek to keep from smiling too wide at that voice. Derek never really kicked the habit of yelling at him from the other side of the hallway, probably enjoying how flustered and stuttery he gets when people would start to giggle or throw him jealous looks. “What do you want, Hale?” he shouts back, trying and failing to keep the humour out of his voice.

“You,” the answer comes, closer now, and Stiles almost drops his books.

“Har har,” he replies, although he’s pretty sure that the heat in his cheeks is keeping him from appearing entirely unaffected. He turns around to see Derek grinning at him.

“I’m serious, though,” the lacrosse captain says, stepping closer and taking Stiles’ books. “I want you … to come over to dinner tonight. My mom’s cooking. She says to bring your dad, too.”

“Oooh, is she making lasagne again?” Stiles immediately asks, interest piqued, but Derek frowns at that.

“Her lasagne is temporarily banned from our house, because I’m pretty sure the only reason you’re still around is because you get free food out of it. You can get some again when we have, like, a one-year anniversary or something.”

Stiles gasps at that, scandalized. “That’s totally not true, there are _plenty_ of nice perks that come with the job description, like, uhh … well, your hoodies are really warm and soft. That’s, like, a major pro. What else …? Let’s see, your car’s pretty cool, sometimes you do my calculus for me …”

“Oh, phew, _that’s_ a relief. I was so worried that you’re using me for your own selfish purposes…” Derek laughs, standing closer, leaning in, his expression broadcasting happiness and his mouth—

A hand on his shoulder. “If you two are done flirting, maybe we should think of heading to chem at some point,” Scott interrupts grumpily. The poor puppy, Allison has only smiled twice at him today and still sits with Lydia at lunch. If you ask Stiles, her father is currently the biggest obstacle in Scott’s love life. He’s probably gonna have to concoct a plan to help the guy win her over at some point, he still owes him for that burger sauce stain on his favourite shirt.

“Don’t worry, Scotty, it’s just been a rough week. She’ll see the light eventually. If it helps, we can TP their house this weekend?”

That reluctant Scott patented smile and Derek’s arm, warm and strong around his shoulders, is all Stiles could ask for.

To tell you the truth – his life isn’t actually half bad.

 

>><< 

 

**Bonus Round!**

“That reminds me, you’re definitely telling Harris that that fire was all your fault.”

“I can’t believe you’re still hung up on that. They couldn’t prove the hamster died of smoke inhalation, it might as well have been the bad taco Jackson gave it the day before. And anyway, indirectly, you caused it.”

“By doing what? I wasn’t even close to any chemicals then, I was on the other side of the room!”

“You distracted me.”

“By eating my curly fries?”

“Exactly.”

“What do you mean, ‘exactly’? Was I too loud? Scott, do you know what he’s talking about?”

 

 

 

 


End file.
